Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, Spike, or anything relating to that show. No profit was made, don't sue.

Author's Note: Now, this is probably as close to Spuffy as I'll get. As you can tell, I'm a major Spru shipper, but I couldn't resist writing this one. Enjoy.

The screams. The torment. He would kill himself just to be rid of them.

Spike hadn't meant to hurt her, that wasn't at all his intention. He just wanted his love to feel what he felt, to submit to the forces at work inside her no matter how much she denied them. Bloody hell, did Buffy think it was easy for him? It's not every day that you fall head over heels for your worst enemy, one that you've tried to kill so many times. Yet despite these attempts, he'd give anything to take back the time when he actually did hurt her. And this bitter irony twisted his intestines like a rusted blade.

No matter how many times he reversed it in his head, it didn't change the reality of it; he tried to rape her. There, on the bathroom floor, he forced himself on the girl's body in a desperate attempt to uncover her feelings - to make her love him. To make love to her. Any order of those words was fine with him as long as she felt something, anything! He needed her affection like he needed the night.

Injured and tired from battle, the blonde could do nothing but squirm, beg, and wiggle some more as he lost control. She had taken him many times in a fight, but when she needed her strength the most, she was devoid of it. Using all her energy, Ms. Summers slammed a foot into his abs and sent him across the room, landing with a crash.

Clawing at her white bathrobe, her eyes twinkled with tears as she said: "Ask me again why I could never love you!"

He already knew why. He had already proved the answer, time and time again. Because he was a monster.

This response burned itself in his mind like a crucifix, and he swallowed another gulp of whiskey to drown his sorrows. It wasn't enough. No amount of liquor seemed to work, it was a miracle the vampire could still stand up straight. Were he a human, he might have already been dead from the amount of alcohol in his system. Part of him wished he was. Maybe death would put this aching torment to sleep, if nothing else could.

Another memory, another sip - it was a pattern that seemed to go well together. Yet where this method had helped him so many times, the torture remained like a fresh wound. Buffy laying on the bathroom floor. Buffy naked beneath his skin. Buffy screaming in terror as he hit her. Buffy's room. Buffy's hair. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, Buffy.

He smashed the empty whisky bottle on the floor, the glass exploding against the stone like a splash of water. It was his fourth quart today. And though Spike was normally a little testy, he could be quite a mean drunk. In fact, he was down right brutal... he didn't get the nickname Spike for petting kittens, you know.

Mind reeling, head pounding, the drunkard stumbled to his couch, reaching under it's dusty fabric frantically. Sure enough there was another container of booze, his little friend to help deal with pain, to help cope with anything he needed. Or just for pleasure. Any reason was a good enough reason for him, especially on this occasion.

The top popped free and he tipped the bottle back, not bothering to breathe as he polished off some more liquid. He screwed up big time, and he didn't think he had the strength to deal with it. The girl he loved, the only person he gave a damn about, hated him. Despised him. Wanted him dead.

The only girl he loved... would never love him back.